


the last kick of courage

by decinq



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-15 16:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5791975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decinq/pseuds/decinq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has to be better than this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the last kick of courage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idrilka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idrilka/gifts).



Jack gets back to school with a single New Year’s Resolution: Be Honest.

 

The first day, it’s not so easy. He has butterflies in his stomach when he sighs and says, “Kent and I owe each other a lot of apologies.” He makes an awkward joke about being a robot that Bittle doesn’t laugh at, but Jack thinks he salvages it. He says, “I have a good feeling about this semester,” and Bittle agrees. They bump fists, and Jack fights back his smile by turning their shinny into a makeshift practice. 

 

It doesn’t get easier, though. Jack fights with himself on most days. Fights to get out of bed when his alarm goes off at quarter after five in the morning. Fights to not snap at Shitty for leaving the cap off on their tube of toothpaste. 

 

But fighting with himself over his own integrity is new. It’s different. It’s not something he’d ever spent any time thinking about until he’d opened his bag in his childhood bedroom the night after the Kegster and found Bittle’s cookies. And something had caught in his throat and stalled all the thoughts that usually raced through his head. But it struck him, then, that he needed to be better. Needs to be better.

 

Jack wants to deserve this type of kindness. He wants to earn the way Bittle looks at him like he’s got the answers. Jack doesn’t know shit — not anything important, anyway. But Bittle looks at him like the stuttered, accented words that make their way out of Jack’s mouth are important. He asks Jack for help on things he really isn’t qualified to help with. He spent a whole semester knocking his hips into Jack’s in the kitchen, smiling up at Jack and washing the dishes while Jack put them away. They make a good team, but Jack doesn’t want to feel like Bittle is doing all the work. 

 

And so. The honesty. 

 

It doesn’t get easier, but Jack feels pretty good despite himself. He knows he’s getting ahead of himself, setting himself up for failure. Too much hope never did anyone any good.

 

Jack wants to have good things in his life. Nice things. Not items; no material thing has ever made him happy, and he’s never had to spend a day in his life thinking about money. But he wants to  _ feel _ the nice things. He wants to be full-up with happiness and love and comfort. He wants to play hockey, and he wants to wake up most mornings feeling brave.

 

It’s not simple. He knows that. It’s hard and it hurts to try for those kinds of things. Greater men have suffered worse at the hands of lesser demons than the ones that slink around the back of Jack’s mind. He’s not a brave person. He’s strong: he knows that much. He’s pulled himself out from the most hateful parts of his own brain and he’s put himself through the wringer more than anyone else ever has. He wasn’t cut out to be a soldier or a teacher or a brother. He lacks the proper kind of understanding for others. He wants to be kind, but it’s easy to get lost in the noise and the light and the feeling of everything else that happens in the world. He isn’t a brave man, but he wants to be. He wants to be both selfish and selfless with his heart. He wants to learn how to love in a way that sticks. 

 

The media has said a lot of nasty shit about him, has been spitting venom about him since he was sixteen. Sticks and stones. He broke his finger in his first year at Samwell and it healed just fine. The media has said a lot of shit, but they can’t hurt him because the worst things anyone could say, he’s already said to himself.

 

There’s a weight inside him that is going to fight him each step of the way, whether he’s honest or not. If he fails, it’s not really about him being a liar. He’s only lied a handful of times when it really mattered. It’s been years since then. He learned about silence the hard way, but he knows how much it says, now.

 

Things the first week back in the Haus after the holidays are the same way they always are. Bittle stress bakes a bunch of pie because everyone goes off the deep end in that first week with the scramble of a new schedule, new classes, the always-long line at the campus bookstore. Jack doesn’t have class on Tuesdays, so he sleeps until eleven and then goes to the gym. By the time he’s home, Bittle will be back from his lecture. And they fall into a pattern easily, in those first few weeks. Jack makes a routine that allows space for Bittle, and Jack has never made time for anyone like that before. 

 

They have class together on Monday and Wednesday. They do homework together at Annie’s on Tuesday evenings. Before class on Wednesdays, they have practice. Thursday is Haus Night, which means they all hang out together, but Jack always takes time to help Bittle with whatever he’s baking, or makes sure to sit beside him when they play Smash Bros. The beginning of January bleeds into its middle, and the month ends faster than ever. Between hockey and seminars and readings, Jack’s free time is limited. The few hours he gives himself are spent, more and more often, with Bittle. 

 

That’s the first step of the honesty. It started in his childhood bedroom, looking down at a batch of smuggled cookies. He has to be honest with himself before he can be honest with anyone else.

 

Jack decided, in a sleep-deprived moment of harsh self-realization, that he wants to try for this. He’s not sure how, really. But heading back to Samwell is second nature now, and popping his head into the threshold of Bittle’s room is normal. It’s sitting next to Bittle at dinner that’s different; it’s sharing the cramped tables in Annie’s that’s new--his shoes and ankles and knees knocking against Bittle’s under the wood, pleasant and warm and exciting.

 

It makes his heart race, though. Makes his palms sweat. Being honest with himself means he knows how much he wants this, knows that he’s actively hoping for a specific outcome despite the risks.

 

That’s where, Jack guesses, the bravery comes in. 

 

*

 

Shitty gets into Harvard, and it’s a great and happy moment until Jack’s eyes meet Bitty’s. He mouths, “Lardo” at Jack, and Jack nods.   
  


Bittle’s cheeks are pink, and his eyes are wide, and Jack is just one man. And he’s not a good man, at that. He has vices and weaknesses and he’s a coward playing a loser’s game. 

 

Lardo comes back, but Shitty keeps his space. Which is fair enough. Jack had always thought, for years, that they were dancing circles around each other, but now he’s not so sure. Jack’s no scientist, no physicist. He stopped taking math classes as soon as he could, but he remembers asymptotes. Understands the concepts. He stands beside Bittle in front of an abstract painting and says nothing. The canvas is covered in vertical moving brush strokes of red and black and white. Lines that go up and up and up. 

 

Jack turns his head to look at Bittle but Bittle doesn’t look back at him. He wants to scan the room to see if he can spot Shitty or Lardo but knows that they won’t be together, so he looks back at the hanging painting. 

 

Asymptotes are just lines. Two-dimensional representations of something Jack can’t actually conceptualize. They approximate, getting closer and closer for infinity, but they never touch.

 

Bittle says, “This painting makes me sad. It’s stupid,” he scoffs, and Jack swings his arm over Bittle’s shoulders, squeezes the top of his arm gently. “They’re just lines.”

 

Jack doesn’t know what to say--sometimes art is sad. Sometimes art is happy. Sometimes it’s angry, sometimes it’s isolating. Bittle leans into Jack’s side, and Jack wants to pull him closer and closer. They’re not lines at all. Jack is one person and Bittle is another person. Jack’s palm is clammy against the fabric of Bittle’s coat, but it’s not a bad feeling.

 

They move towards the small bar in the corner, and Jack gets them each bottles of water. He hands one over to Bittle, who says, “Thank you,” softly. Jack follows his line of sight. Shitty is standing in front of a photo-series, scowling. Jack sighs.

 

Lardo is at the other end of the room, laughing and talking to someone Jack doesn’t recognize. 

 

He steps to the side, just a few small inches over, until his arm is barely brushing Bittle’s. It’s a small thing, a barely-there contact, but it makes Jack feel better. His gut is tight, butterflies in his stomach. 

 

Shitty is flexing his hands, closing them into fists at his sides and then letting them go lax.

 

Bittle says, “You wanna go home?”

 

“Yeah,” Jack says. Shitty moves on to the next piece. Lardo looks at him from across the room, then looks away immediately.

 

Jack isn’t sure, now, what he ever thought would happen. He doesn’t think they’re ever going to figure it out, Lardo and Shitty. Not with each other.

 

Bittle says, “Me too,” and so Jack screws the top back onto his bottle of water, and shoves his free hand into his pocket.

 

“Lead the way,” Jack says.

 

*

Jack knows that he’s dreaming because time isn’t working properly, skipping and jumping and making things up. He knows he’s dreaming, but that doesn’t stop his sleep-weak mind from leaning into the comfort of Bittle; in his dream, he tucks his nose into Bittle’s neck, kisses the soft skin along Bittle’s jaw, and Bittle, in Jack’s dream, puts his hands in Jack’s hair. 

 

Jack wakes up with his right hand down the front of his pyjama pants, his fingers wrapped around his dick. 

 

His grip tightens despite himself, and his thighs clench. His breath hitches. He has no idea what time it is. The Haus is quiet around him, and his breathing is hard and feels loud to his own ears. He shifts his hips up, thrusts up into his own hand.

 

He can imagine being brave enough, less far gone and more self controlled, and calming himself down. He can imagine slipping across the hall and giving a soft knock to Bittle’s door. He can imagine Bittle’s hand on his thigh, sliding up, up, up. He can imagine pressing his mouth to Bittle’s sharp collarbones, to the hollow of his neck. He can imagine Bittle’s breath in his ear, and it doesn’t take much more than that--the falsity of it unimportant when Jack can clamp his eyes shut and can imagine Bittle’s voice, the sound of Jack’s name leaving his mouth, raspy and quiet and spoken into Jack’s skin. Jack’s orgasm doesn’t surprise him, but it shakes him down into his core, anyway. He licks his lips and spends a few minutes breathing, slow and even, until he catches his breath. He wipes his hand on his bedsheets, because it’s Thursday and he need to do laundry anyways.

 

When he checks his phone, it reads 5:34. Eleven minutes until his alarm will sound. He sits up, opens his alarm app and shuts it off. When he twists his neck to the right, it cracks once. Bending it to the left, it doesn’t pop but feels like it should anyway. Jack blinks up at his ceiling, and tries not to think too hard about it.

 

He thinks, probably, that jerking off to images of your teammate isn’t something anyone with any integrity would do, but he can’t take it back. He doesn’t even really regret it. The honesty thing is working alright, so far, but he’s only really been acknowledging this stuff to himself. And maybe--maybe to be a good person, an honest person--he needs to say it out loud. It means something else, something more, when someone else hears it. When someone else knows about it.

 

Bittle wears his heart on his sleeve. He’s a sweet person. Kind and gentle and funny, but he’s angry and he’s sad and he gives himself away, over and over, just to help the people he cares about. Jack’s not sure that anyone has ever really looked out for him before. Jack wants to do that. Wants to have Bittle’s back.

 

He has to be better than this. 

 

Jack spends all of thirty-seven seconds hating himself, but after that he pulls his socks onto his feet and changes into his sweatpants. He's got shit to do, life crisis or not.

 

*

 

Jack’s knee hurts sometimes, and as the winter starts to melt its way out of New England,  he wakes up stiff more mornings than not. Time is a funny thing, that way. Wintertime is so busy, hockey and studying and trying to find a way to sleep more than five hours a night. Jack gets so caught up in making it through that somehow all his days get used up. 

 

The snow melts fast, and its puddles turn to ice on the sidewalks around campus. The tip of Jack’s nose feels frozen and he buys a scarf. Bittle’s cheeks are always pink when he steps out from the cold and into the Haus. Jack’s thoughts are as pure as the driven slush. 

 

He tries to remember the summer, the way each season twists his thoughts in its own way.  Summer is training and baseball hats and the way the backs of Bittle’s legs turn a soft and golden brown. He tries to imagine this summer and knows that it’ll be like that other summer, years ago and in a different country, with a different, sharper blond boy. Before everything went sideways. All Jack really remembers from that month is lake water and pear cider and vomit and sunscreen. Card games and the fire pit in his parents backyard and the hard press of Kent’s mouth under his own. 

 

Jack isn’t sure how all that happened. He thinks, sometimes, that his life is just comprised of moments collected from other people.

 

Jack took pictures that summer, on disposable cameras. Those memories are lost somewhere, but they were real. Tactile and solid and gone. 

 

Jack can’t quite understand how he’s lost stuff like that. He watches Bittle unwind his scarf from around his neck, and smiles at him. “How was class?” Jack asks from his spot on the floor, legs tucked under the coffee table. 

 

“Not bad,” Bittle says. He sits behind Jack on the couch, his left knee impossibly close to Jack’s right shoulder. Jack could lean into him if he wanted. 

 

Jack leans his head back against the couch instead and Bittle pats his forehead--a bit condescending but more endearing than anything. Jack closes his eyes and says, “You wanna get coffee? Go for a run?” 

 

Bittle says, “Both? We could go around the pond, head to Annie’s?”

 

Jack rolls his head to the side and looks at the side of Bittle’s leg, so close. He says, “Sounds good.” 

 

Bittle stands and Jack reaches up, gestures for his hand. Bittle helps pull him up to standing, and Jack wants to smile but bites it back. Things are so different, now. The way he feels when Bittle sits beside him, smiles up at him--it’s different than it ever was with Kent. They race up the stairs, and Bittle hip checks Jack into the wall before taking the stairs two at a time, beating Jack to the top. Jack says, “You cheated,” and frowns.

 

Bittle laughs and says, “Spoken like a true loser.”

 

Jack rolls his eyes, heads into his bedroom to change into shorts and a long-sleeved Under Armour. He catches his reflection in the mirror, and blinks at himself. He can’t quite understand how things change the way they do--doesn’t know how or why he’s lost the memories that seemed like they mattered so much, before. It’s like he looked up and only just realized that he’s grown.

 

It’s such a weird way to look at himself. 

 

Bittle says, “Are you coming or what?” from the hallway, and Jack follows him down the stairs and out the door.

 

*

 

They go on the road, and Ransom and Holster start some bogus debate about bugs. It’s stupid, because both situations could be solved. No problem is really all that permanent. If Jack’s learned one thing in the shitshow of his life, it’s that he’ll never meet a battle he can’t finish.

 

You push past it. You call the exterminator if there are bugs in your attic. Jack’s been to rehab--he knows that there’s no way out but through.

 

They win off a beautiful goal that Jack scores off an even more beautiful pass from Bittle. Bittle crashes into Jack, and Jack fists his hands in the back of Bittle’s jersey.

 

They’re not there, yet. It’s not quite the end. They haven’t won it all. But Bittle smiles up at Jack, and he’s laughing and cheering, and Jack feels bashful and happy. He’s sweaty and he’s tired, but Bittle doesn’t stop smiling. It’s not over yet, but even if they don’t win the whole thing, Jack at least has this: Bittle’s thigh pressed into his on the bench, Bittle’s ecstatic, “That was amazing, Jack,” whispered into his ear.

 

And maybe that’ll be enough.

 

It pretty much has to be.

 

*

 

Jack’s beard is itchy. Jack doesn’t mind growing it out, is actually pretty fond of the way it makes his face look. It softens his jaw, makes his teeth look just a bit whiter than they actually are. He rubs his hand against it and makes himself focus on his readings. He’s almost done. It’ll be over before he knows it. He’s never going to have to study like this again in his life, if he doesn’t want to. 

 

Jack has enjoyed school. He likes learning. He’s proud of the work he’s done. It wasn’t always as straightforward as he would have liked, and it’s not where he ever thought he would be.

 

He’s trying to cherish it, but he’s been reading the same paragraph over and over for the last forty minutes, and his eyes are getting itchy. 

 

Shitty knocks on Jack’s bedroom door, and says, “Wanna come with me to the Stop and Shop?”

 

Jack considers staying, actually trying to finish his work. He closes his textbook and says, “I’m driving.”

 

“You’re a control freak,” Shitty says. “You’re not driving.”

 

Jack smiles, and stands from his chair. He says, “Fine,” and pulls his Samwell Men’s Hockey sweatshirt off the back of his door. He puts it on before following Shitty down the stairs. He slips his feet into his runners, steps on the back of the heels and asks, “What’re we going for?” 

 

“Milk,” Shitty says. “Bits probably needs butter.”

 

It seems like a short list, but Jack doesn’t mind. Is happy for the distraction.

 

He doesn’t realize it’s a trap until it’s too late. He’s buckled in and Shitty is half-way down the street when he says, “So.”

 

Jack turns to him, stares at his profile for a few uncomfortable seconds before he says, “So?” Shitty doesn’t look away from the road at all.

 

“So,” Shitty repeats. “Spill the beans. Tell me.”

 

Jack turns to face forward. He swallows. He thinks about being evasive. About telling Shitty to drop it.

 

But he needs to be honest. He wants to say it out loud.

 

“I don’t think there’s much to say,” Jack says. He doesn’t know what to say. That he wants to wake up beside Bittle? That he wants to take him to a fancy Italian restaurant and order them expensive wine? Jack is nervous, he realizes. He doesn’t want Shitty to make a joke of it. Jack being ass over tea kettle for Bittle isn’t a crack in his exterior, and he doesn’t want to have to face Shitty making a joke about Jack’s robot wires being crossed over. A virus in his programming. Jack deserves better than that, and so does Bittle. It’s not a mistake. Jack doesn’t believe in much of anything, but when he thinks about Bittle, he’s happy that his life has led him here. It’s not fate, because Jack doesn’t believe in that shit, but it’s something. A fault and fate and a feeling, all mixed together. 

 

Jack has to tell someone, though. He says, “I don’t think I’ve ever really been in love before.”

 

Shitty hums low in his throat, and Jack doesn’t know what the sound means. When Shitty doesn’t elaborate, Jack says, “He makes me feel like it’d be easy.”

 

Shitty turns left into the parking lot of the Stop and Shop, pulls into a parking spot. He turns his key, and the engine goes quiet. “Do you think it would be? Easy?” Shitty asks, and Jack looks at his hands. He twists his fingers in his lap. 

 

“No,” Jack says. “It’d be horrible.”

 

“He’s a good guy, Jack.”

 

“Yeah,” Jack says. “I know.”

 

Shitty doesn’t say anything else, just opens the door and steps out of the car. But Jack knows what he means anyway: Bittle is worth the trouble.

 

*

 

Ransom strongarms Jack into watching the tail end of a movie with him and Holster and Bittle. Jack slides onto the last empty spot on the couch, and it’s fine. He doesn’t really know what’s going on. It’s a romantic comedy, that’s for sure, but he thinks the one guy is the same actor that played Harry Potter, and he can’t concentrate on anything else.

 

Bittle falls asleep between one scene and the next, his cheek resting against Jack’s shoulder. He’s breathing through his open mouth. Jack’s arm is resting along the back of the couch, and he could touch Bittle’s shoulder with the tips of his fingers if he wanted to.

 

Jack swallows.

 

He’s in very big trouble.

 

*

They pile into the bus, and the trip to Yale has never taken so long. Jack bites his nails down to the skin. 

 

The sun beams in through the windows and the light catches on everything. There’s dust in the air. There’s dust in Jack’s lungs.

 

In Jack’s heart.

 

*

 

Jack knows the sad truth: life is shit, and what he wants does not matter.

 

They lose.

 

*

 

They had a good season, and knowing that they played their hearts out should be enough.

 

It should be enough, but it isn’t.

 

*

 

Bittle’s arm fits around Jack’s shoulder better than he thinks it should. Jack is slumped over, folded in the middle, and Bittle is leaning into him. Jack tried his best to stand tall for the team, to hold steadfast. In some twisted, broken way, it makes sense to him that he and Bittle collapse against each other. 

 

Bittle is usually all smiles, soft hands and a sweet lull to his voice. Jack has seen him angry, has seen him scared, but Jack has never seen him cry.

 

And Jack has tears in his own eyes, is fucked up in his own painful way. But something settles in him, then. 

 

Bittle is strong in a different way than Jack has ever been. He hides a very gentle and soft part of himself away, and Jack can parse at why. Kids aren’t born tough, but the skin on their knees gets thicker the more times they fall down. Jack’s never seen Bittle like this.

 

Jack isn’t sure when the last time he cried in front of someone was. 

 

His gear is sticking to his skin. His feet are cold despite his socks. He sniffles, and Bittle moves to turn away from him.

 

“I--” Jack starts. Stops. “Can I just--” He says, his voice raspy and quiet and desperate.

 

Bittle nods, and Jack turns to face him and hugs him. His arms fit around Bittle’s shoulders, and Bittle’s hands wrap around his middle. His head fits under Jack’s chin, and his hair is soft and a bit damp against Jack’s skin. 

 

If someone had asked Jack five years where he would be, this is the last thing he would imagine. People shift and grow, but Jack’s never really been certain if anyone actually changes. And yet, here he is, his nose pressed into the top of Bittle’s head and his hands around Bittle’s back, not letting go. 

 

*

 

The ride back to Samwell is quiet.

 

Jack’s legs are too long to fit comfortably in the seats, his knees pressing into the back of the seat in front of him. 

 

It takes Jack twenty minutes on the road before he finds the nerve to undo his seatbelt and stand. He moves carefully towards the back of the bus and looks down at Chowder. There’s an empty seat beside him, but he’s turned towards the window, resting his forehead against the glass.

 

Jack asks, “May I sit with you?”

 

Chowder turns to look at him and shrugs.

 

Jack sits, and knocks his knee against Chowder’s. “Chowder,” he says. He stops, because he doesn’t really know what to say. Nothing is going to make the hurt go away. The best Jack can hope for is that he can make it hurt less. Get the guys through to tomorrow, where it’ll all be behind them. He says, “Chris,” and Chowder sighs. 

 

He rolls his head and looks at Jack from the corner of his eye, and Jack is struck by how young he is--nearly a decade younger than Jack. Closer to ten years than not. He looks young. Jack remembers being 18. Everything hurt so much. Every true thing was so hard to swallow. 

 

“You played really well,” Jack says. “It wasn’t your fault.”

 

“It  _ was _ ,” Chowder says, indignant and stubborn in a way only teenagers can be. 

 

“It wasn’t,” Jack says, voice firm. “You had a great season. I’m happy we were lucky enough to play together. You’re a good teammate and good goalie.”

 

Chowder looks back out the window, lifts his hand to run it over his eyes.

 

“Thanks, Jack,” he says, and he still sounds defeated but he sounds better, too. 

 

Jack forces himself to smile, and it’s a closed mouthed and tight lipped one at best, but Chowder does the same, Jack feels a bit better. When he says, “We had a good run,” it doesn’t feel like a lie.

 

*

Jack wakes up the next morning with his chest still feeling heavy. It hurts less, but it still doesn’t feel great. Jack is sad.

 

He makes his way downstairs, slides along the floor in his socked feet. He pours himself a glass of milk, fills the kettle and turns on the burner. He drinks his milk while he waits, and when the whistle for the water goes, he switches off the stove and sets it aside.

 

Bittle says, “I’m surprised that worked for you,” and Jack startles. He turns and there’s Bittle. Messy haired and slow, sleepy blinking, all morning soft and the only person Jack wants to talk to this early in the day.

 

“Why’s that?” Jack asks.

 

Bittle shrugs and pushes to standing from where he’s been leaning against the doorway. “Been acting up. I think the wiring is shot, but I’m not sure.” 

 

Jack files that information away, an idea budding in the back of his mind. He says, “Want some tea?”

 

“Please,” Bittle says. 

 

Jack gets the teapot out of the cupboard, and Bittle finds a tin of Earl Grey, drops a tea bag into it. 

 

“My momma used to always say that one tea bag could make as much tea as you need, so long as you’ve got the patience.”

 

“Smart woman,” Jack says. 

 

Bittle pours milk into mugs--more into one for Jack than he pours into his own. They move around each other in a comfortable silence: Jack finds the honey in the back of the cupboard, shaped like a bear and half-used already; Bittle puts slices of bread into the toasted, opens the fridge and grabs the jar of raspberry jam that says  _ J _ on the side. 

 

The toast pops, and Jack pours tea into both of their mugs. Bittle butters one slice, puts jam on top of it, and then does just jam on the other. Jack puts honey into Bittle’s tea, then recaps it. Bittle sets each slice on a plate and hands one off to Jack. Jack says, “Thank you,” and Bittle nods. He hoists himself up onto the counter and leans his head back against the cupboard. Jack leans his hip against the counter and eat the crust off his piece of toast.

 

“I’m sorry we couldn’t win for you,” Bittle says. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back. His hair is standing up, still sleep mused. His cheeks are pink, and Jack thinks there may very well be a pillow crease on the left side of Bittle’s face.

 

Jack shakes his head, and says, “It’s fine.”

 

Bittle starts “It’s--” but Jack interrupts him.

 

“It  _ is _ fine. It’s over. But it--” Bittle lifts his head and blinks at Jack, and Jack shrugs. He can be honest about this, but he’s not sure he can look at Bittle while he says it. He sighs. “This,” he says, waving at the kitchen but meaning something else entirely. “It was gonna be over no matter how well we did. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

 

Jack gets that, now. No matter what had happened, it could never have been enough. There are days when Jack wants to be left alone and there are days when Jack wants to do the leaving, and as much as he’s had a mixed relationship with the institution and experience that is Samwell, he still loved playing with these guys. He loved living in the Haus, and he loved being their captain. No matter how many games they won and no matter what he wants, that’s ending sooner rather than later. The days slip away so fast, even when they all just bleed together; grey, grey, grey. 

 

Bittle sits forward, and he takes a sip of his tea before setting his mug back down on the counter. He licks his lips before he says, “It’s going to be weird here without you.”

 

Providence isn’t all that far from Samwell. It’s a quick enough drive. He hasn’t signed with them yet, but he’s going to so long as nothing goes awry. He hasn’t told anyone that other than his parents, but.

 

The honesty.

 

Jack says, “Providence isn’t far,” and watches as understanding washes across Bittle’s features. His smile starts small, but his eyes light up. They’re big and brown and Jack can’t look away.

 

Bittle says, “Yeah?” Jack nods.

 

“Yeah,” he says. He smiles, and his heart feels tight in his chest.

 

It’s horrifying, to stand in front of the thing you want most in the world and know you could fuck it up. How does anyone decide what’s worth the risk? He doesn’t want it to hurt, but more than that, he doesn’t want the reason it could all go south. He knows how easily things fall apart.

 

Bittle kicks his feet out, and Jack snaps his hand out to circle his fingers around Bittle’s ankle. He tugs gently, and Bittle says, “That’s great.” He sounds genuinely happy for Jack, and Jack feels full to bursting. 

 

He takes a sip of his tea and swallows. 

 

He drops Bittle’s foot and sets his tea down at the same time. “Thank you,” Jack says. “Can I ask you a question?”

 

Bittle smirks. “That was a question.”

 

“Okay, smartass,” Jack says. He rolls his eyes and steps just that small bit closer to Bittle. There’s already so little space between them, and it’d be strange if it were anyone else. When Jack looks at Bittle’s face, he feels like the floor is falling out from underneath him. 

 

Jack would be willing to fall into nothing if it meant he got to keep this--this lazy morning and the taste of milky tea on his tongue, the feel of Bittle’s soft skin under his hand.

 

Bittle says, “Ask away,” and Jack breathes deeply.

 

“Will you tell me if I’m wrong?” 

 

“If you’re wr--” Bittle stops when Jack steps forward until his stomach is pressed into the outside of Bittle’s leg against the counter. He moves into Bittle’s space slowly, his heart racing, beating against his chest. 

 

He leans forward gently, and it’s the slowest thing he’s ever done. He’s not sure how he does it, but he finds the last kick of courage in him, and when his mouth is hovering just above Bittle’s, he asks, “Not wrong?”

 

Bittle shakes his head, no, and he barely moves at all. He says, “Not wrong,” and it comes out as a whisper, and the gap between them closes, and infinite space that disappears into nothing when Jack presses forward enough for their lips touch. 

 

It’s soft at first. Chapped lips and surprise and overwhelming fondness. Bittle lifts his hands to cup the sides of Jack’s face, and Jack presses forward, puts more pressure into it, steps even closer to Bittle. Bittle pulls his mouth back from Jack but doesn’t drop his hands, and Jack blinks his eyes open, unsure of when they’d fallen shut, and Bittle huffs a small laugh. 

 

“Sorry,” he says, but he’s still giggling. Jack touches his hand to Bittle’s shoulder, drags his fingers down his arm to his elbow, up towards where his wrist is soft against Jack’s cheek.

 

Jack smiles and says, “Don’t be sorry.”

 

Bittle drags his thumb across Jack’s cheekbone, and Jack lets his eyes fall shut again. Bittle says, “We can do that again, I swear I’m not gonna keep laughing,” and that’s something Jack can work for. He moves back in, intent this time. He kisses Bittle with more care, and when he runs his tongue along Bittle’s lower lip, Bittle opens his mouth to Jack. Jack licks into his mouth, and Bittle moans against Jack, moves one hand into Jack’s hair.

 

Jack loves Bittle’s laugh, but he’d rather hear the sound of him moaning again, low and desperate. 

 

Bittle moves his hands down to the nape of Jack’s neck, drags his hands along Jack’s scalp. Jack shifts against him, and Bittle pulls back from Jack’s mouth so Jack can step in between his legs. Their hips settle against each other, and Jack kisses at Bittle’s cheek, his chin, his jaw. Bittle’s fingers dip into the muscle of Jack’s shoulder through his t-shirt, and Jack moans into the soft skin of Bittle’s neck. He nips at the spot just below Bittle’s ear with his teeth, and Bittle says, “Jack,” raspy and soft and it’s the best thing Jack’s ever heard. 

 

Jack hums, licks at the pink skin to take away the sting of his teeth. Bittle says, “Can we--” and Jack stops, leans back slowly, carefully.

 

Bittle’s lips are pink and kiss-swollen, his pyjama pants are soft under Jack’s callused hands, and Jack is probably in love with him. He’ll do whatever Bittle wants.

 

“You don’t have to look so scared,” Bittle says, and smiles. He runs his fingers through the hair at Jack’s temple, behind Jack’s ear. “I was gonna suggest we, um. Go upstairs? If you want. Might be less--” Bittle shrugs his shoulders, and Jack smiles.

 

“We can do that,” Jack says. “If that’s what you want.”

 

Bittle nods, but then catches his own lip between his teeth. He leans back against the cupboard behind him and says, “I. Yes but. Not if--” He sighs, and Jack rubs his thumb against Bittle’s thigh. “I can’t do it just the once. That can’t--”

 

“It’s not,” Jack says. “I--” He smiles, and he when Bittle meets his eye, it feels easy to be brave. It feels worth it to be honest. “I like you a lot.”

 

Bittle’s lips twitch up at the corners, and he says, “Okay.”

 

Jack’s brows furrow. “Okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Bittle says, smiling at Jack, his eyes twinkling. “ _ Okay _ . Move your butt, let’s go.”

 

“Oh,” Jack says, and Bittle rolls his eyes. He hops down from the counter, and shoves Jack towards the stairs. 

 

They walk up the stairs silently, and it’s a little bit awkward until they get halfway up the stairs and Bittle says, “Me too, obviously.”

 

Jack smiles, and they stand in the space between their two rooms. Jack points to Bittle’s door, and Bittle nods, and Jack says, “Okay,” and Bittle rolls his eyes.

 

*

Looking down at Bittle under him makes Jack’s mind race. 

 

He wants to do everything with Bittle. It’s overwhelming, how fast his heart is beating, how soft the skin of Bittle’s ribs feel under Jack’s hands. Bittle bites into Jack’s mouth, and Jack smiles against him.

 

He wants to do everything, but what is most likely to happen is that Jack is going to blow it in two minutes flat. Bittle has his hands on Jack’s ass, and when Jack grinds their hips together, they both gasp.

 

Bittle says, “Oh,” against Jack’s mouth, and Jack repeats the motion. Bittle’s hands scramble when he moves them, but he stills them at the waistband of Jack’s pyjamas. Jack nods, and Bittle pulls at the chord at the front of Jack’s sleep pants, tugs them down Jack’s hips. When he wraps his fingers around Jack, Jack exhales, shaky. 

 

Bittle moves his wrist, slow, and Jack says, “Christ,” and moves his hips, thrusts into Bittle’s touch. 

 

He shifts his weight so that he can stay propped up on one arm. He slips his hands into Bittle’s pants. They jerk each other off like that, kissing and breathing into each other’s mouths. Jack comes first, his mouth pressed hard against Bittle’s as his orgasm rips out of him. Bittle kisses him after, and Jack speeds up the movement of his hand until Bittle comes too. He shakes with it, and says Jack’s name against Jack’s skin. It’s perfect and it’s everything.

 

*

 

Not all that much changes. Jack’s life still falls into a predictable routine. Jack still doesn’t have class on Tuesdays. They still study at Annie’s, but when they play footsie under the table, there’s a bit more intent to it. Jack gets an A on his photo project, and they find a way to sleep in the same bed, alternating with no real pattern and no real reason. When they sit together at dinner with the rest of the team, they sit with their thighs pressed together.

 

Bittle’s birthday comes around, and Jack buys him an oven. Bittle cries, and Jack kisses his cheeks, and Jack has never felt so happy.

 

Bittle cries at graduation, too. Because it is sad. Jack’s stuff is mostly packed away, Chowder’s boxes taking up just as much space as the ones with Jack’s messy scrawl on their sides. 

 

Jack’s parents take him and Bittle for dinner after the ceremony, and Jack’s dad orders them a bottle of wine. Bittle’s cheeks get more and more pink the longer the night goes on, and Jack leaves his hand on Bittle’s thigh under the table while they eat. Jack’s mom smiles at him, and Jack smiles back. It all feels silly and stupid and insane, but it makes Jack happy, and that counts for something. For something big, Jack’s pretty sure.

 

When they get back to the Haus, Bittle kisses him slowly and with lots of tongue. He blows Jack against his bedroom door, and then they stumble into bed. Bittle comes across Jack’s stomach with both their hands on him. 

 

Later, when Jack is drawing soft circles along the inside of Bittle’s elbow, Bittle says, “I don’t want everything to change.”

 

Jack’s fingers graze against Bittle’s skin, and Jack says, “We’re going to be fine.” The thing is, he believes it. He feels happy, and more than that, he feels ready. Things are changing simply because they’re bound to, whether Jack or Bittle like it or not. There’s nothing either of them can do except jump into it, head first. 

 

Jack kisses the crown of Bittle’s head and rearranges their limbs so that Jack can tuck his knees behind Bittle’s, can rest his arm over Bittle’s side. 

 

Jack says, “I love you,” and Bittle presses back against him. Things are changing, but that doesn’t mean they’re ending.

 

“Love you too,” he whispers, voice already heavy with sleep.

 

Maybe, Jack thinks, this is really just the start.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

**Author's Note:**

> happy v-day to my favourite writer in this fandom. i love you so much. thank you for being my friend, for guiding me, for having my back. you deserve the world, and i wish i could give you more than this little sliver of it--more than just the space between these two silly boys. you deserve everything.


End file.
